Changes

When mom was here visiting for graduation, she asked me if I was going to start blogging again. I honestly hadn't really given the blog much thought lately. By the last semester of school, I felt I had nothing left to write on here. School sapped most of my creative energy, and more writing sounded like the last thing I wanted to do.

I'm two weeks past my last final, last paper and last class, and I still don't know the long term plans for this blog, but today I woke up with something to say, so here ya go, mom!

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We recently moved into a lovely little house, and I am still exploring our new surroundings--finding the nearest grocery store, gas station, and the quickest routes around town.

For the first time in my life, I live in a mixed neighborhood. I'm sitting on the couch in front of the living room window, and I just watched a young white mom with 3 kids walk by with her jogger stroller. Not 5 minutes behind her were two young black men who looked about as far away from the definition of 'yuppy' as possible. It's not news to me that both of these groups share the city of Atlanta. But it is surprising to me that they both live in the same neighborhood.

Throughout my runs (ok, mostly walks) around the neighborhood, I've seen this over and over. Big, renovated houses next to small, dated ranch-style homes. SUVs sharing the rode with bass-thumping low riders. Black families living next to white ones, poor people next door to rich ones.

I'm excited to see what this neighborhood has to offer, but I also have to admit that living here thus far has presented its personal challenges. Though we've only moved about 2 miles from where we used to live, the history and racial dynamics of this neighborhood couldn't be more different. At Decatur Station (the rail station on ATL's public transit that closest to both our new home and our old apartment), there are 2 bus options. The #19 goes north from the station to our old neighborhood. That bus is usually almost empty, and mostly white. The #15, my new bus that heads south from the station to our new neighborhood is always packed, and I've always been among less than 5 white people on the bus.

I know that this dichotomy has lots to do with zoning laws and civil rights and segregation that still run so deep in the south. And to be honest, I always knew that it existed--I noticed the differences in the 15 and the 19 busses when we first moved here. But now I am a rider on the 15. And that feels very different.

I have been forced to come face to face with my own prejudices. I angered myself the other day when I parked my scooter in the Kroger down on Memorial (which is now the closest one to our house) and worried for a second about whether or not it would get stolen. I wondered whether I should wear my purse around my shoulder instead of putting it in the cart. I eye the black walkers in the neighborhood with more suspicion than the white ones. For the first time ever, I worry our house my get broken into, or our scooter might get stolen out of the driveway.

I should say here that during the entire 3 years that we lived near Emory, we never locked our doors. Wes didn't even lock up his bike most days unless we were leaving town. Friends made fun of us for this choice, and warned us that we were asking for it. Maybe they were right. But I think the reason we chose to risk it was because we deeply want to trust people. We felt like the fact that we knew our neighbors made us safe--not the locks on the doors. And we felt like leaving our house unlocked made a statement--if only to ourselves--that people are basically trustworthy, and that locking our doors every time we stepped out of the house was a false reminder that our haven was always threatened by attack from the "outsiders."

Our new house has an alarm system (and a surround sound system that is our landlord's and I would feel awful if it got stolen because of our stubbornness). I hate using it, which is no surprise. And it does make me realize that part of what goes into making us "feel" safe is how we choose to think about our possessions, and our neighbors. Why do I feel less safe with an alarm system than I did leaving the door to our crappy apartment unlocked?

Or maybe it's not the alarm system. Maybe it's that my new neighborhood contains lots of people who don't look like me. I don't know why, and I can't explain the prejudices that I see in myself, but for some reason, humans seem to see difference as threatening. I perceive difference as threatening.

I hope that living here will teach me that different is just different.

Lent 2009

I have a confession to make. I hate fasting. I do it rarely, but when I do fast, I find myself miserable all day long. I get headaches. I feel crabby and tired. I always begin the day excited for what spiritual epiphanies might result from my sacrifice. But by the end of the day I always feel disappointed. What purpose does fasting serve? What am I supposed to be learning? Why isn’t God paying attention?

Last week I was discussing Lenten disciplines with a friend of mine. During the course of that conversation she told me that for five years of her life, she fasted every Monday. Wide-eyed, I asked her, “Why? What did you learn?” She sort of shrugged and said that she did it because Christians throughout the ages have fasted and prayed, and because she felt it was a small, doable sacrifice to make. She always came away from those Mondays feeling solidarity with those millions around the world who survive on one meal a day or less, those who know the feeling of hunger intimately. She felt keenly aware of her own humanity and fragility, and a desire to find out what it means that we do not live on bread alone.

Maybe fasting isn’t the problem. My problem is that I expect spiritual disciplines to yield results. I want to control the outcome. I want God to work on my terms, and according to my needs.

The lessons of fasting may not be mind-blowing or even very rewarding sometimes. But training myself to go without, to experience the feelings many around the world feel every day, and to make an offering to God, however small, are the lessons that really matter. And so with the Ash Wednesday refrain still fresh in my mind—You are dust, and to dust you shall return—I continue my journey toward God with no expectations, only renewed knowledge that I am so human and yet God speaks to me quietly and gently, one fast at a time.

Hope I Don't Fart In Your Face!

I can't fathom the ability of people to make awkward situations awkward-er. A girl yesterday, while i was in the midst of the noble duty of burning a wart off of her 'hoo-ha', says to me: "I bet you hope I don't fart in your face!". I was not amused. How the hell am I supposed to respond to that? "Gosh, I hope I don't slip with this thermos full of liquid nitrogen I'm holding"?



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Back at It...kind of

"Use your money, every dollar, every penny, every purchase, every stock and every bond, to voice transformation. Use the money that flows through your life--and it does through all of our lives--to express the truth and context of sufficiency. Move the resources that flow thrugh your life toward your highest commitments and ideals, those things you stand for. Hold money as a common trust that we're all responsible for using in ways that nurture and empower us, and all life, our planet and all future generations. Imbue your money with soul--your soul--and let it stand for who you are, your love, your heart, your word and your humanity" ~Lynne Twist "The Soul of Money"

Hiatus

I'm weary of all the election banter, and it has put me off of blogging or reading others' blogs for the time being. I won't go into details, other than to say this:

I am a Christian. And because of my faith, my values and morals and my politics, I voted for Obama. That does not mean I am not a Christian, or that I made a decision not to vote for 'God's candidate.' And it also does not mean that I am waiting for government to solve all my problems, or that I think Obama is the savior of the world and the best president ever.

Obama is neither the antichrist nor the messiah. The kingdom of God will not be ushered in through the Whitehouse under either a Democratic or a Republican Administration. It will be ushered in through the church. And the sooner the church can learn to love each other despite disagreements, the more we model and live out God's kingdom right here on earth.

Throughout the last few weeks and months, I have been offended by people on both sides of the political spectrum--from die-hard democrats who demean republicans and from die-hard republicans who think I'm un-Christian or unintelligent for making the choice I did.

Basically, I'm tired of defending myself. And I'm sad that politics drives families and friends to say mean things to each other. And I'm going to keep my thoughts and opinions to myself for a little while.

Breaks your heart

This was on Oprah today. I didn't see it, but a friend passed it on to me today. It's both beautiful and tragic, as so many things in this world are.

Surprises

Today was a good day because:

I got a surprise call from Wes (who I haven't seen since Monday) saying he was at Emory, and had time for a quick dinner before he headed to Grady for another overnight shift! That meant I got to see him a whole day earlier than I was planning!

And, I haven't had any panicked calls from volunteers waiting or confused about their transportation. This is the first time in 2 1/2 weeks that I haven't had my evening interrupted by transportation hassles.

The house is clean, I'm ahead of a deadline for an article I'm writing for Refugee Family Services, and my Anglican Theology prof gave us a two week extension on a doctrine paper we have due soon.

All in all, a good day. Now, time for some reading for class, a glass of wine, and a hot bath!